


Effort

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Begging, Comeplay, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Gangbang, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, No Aftercare, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Public Blow Jobs, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4139940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The last of Himuro’s composure is giving way, his self-respect long since lost to the slick friction of skin-on-skin, and in spite of himself Murasakibara can’t deny his rising interest as Himuro’s eyes start to glaze with the heat in the air." Murasakibara lets Himuro beg for him before he's ready to make the effort for the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Effort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



Murasakibara thinks he’s almost ready to touch Himuro.

It’s been nearly an hour since the five of them started, the floor of the locker room long since gone sticky and filthy with more than just its usual burden of sweat and water. The air’s oppressive, too, hot and humid with too much effort from too many bodies, and that alone has been enough to keep Murasakibara slumped against the wall where he started, relegating himself to passive observer instead of more active participant. But the last of Himuro’s composure is giving way, his self-respect long since lost to the slick friction of skin-on-skin, and in spite of himself Murasakibara can’t deny his rising interest as Himuro’s eyes start to glaze with the heat in the air.

He’s held out longer than Murasakibara anticipated. It probably helps that he came once already, spilled over the floor with a groan as much pained as pleasured when Fukui first thrust forward into him, but he’s been hard again for over a quarter hour by now and doesn’t seem any closer to another orgasm than when he first whined at the pressure of Okamura’s cock stretching him wide. Okamura himself has an intent expression, is staring blank down at the slope of Himuro’s shoulders in front of him and biting his lip like he’s trying to hold himself together, but he’s not going to last much longer, and if Himuro’s not come again yet he’s not going to without Murasakibara’s help.

“Atsushi,” Himuro whines against the floor, as he’s been doing at intervals for the last hour. “Atsushi,  _please_.” Okamura growls something unintelligible and low, thrusts forward hard enough that Himuro skids forward by an inch, but when Himuro whimpers it’s still framed around the shape of Murasakibara’s name. He’s not looking up; he tipped forward against the floor some time ago, gave up on the heat-glazed stare he had been maintaining with Murasakibara, but Murasakibara doesn’t need to see Himuro’s face to imagine the wet slur of his lips, the way all his skin is flushed hot and sticky with sweat and come.

“I’m bored of watching,” he announces, a general statement rather than a response to Himuro specifically. It doesn’t make much of a difference. Okamura isn’t paying him any attention, Fukui long since sprawled boneless and exhausted in the corner; Liu’s the only one to spare him so much as a glance, and even that is more calmly knowing than it is judgmental. So in the end it is for Himuro after all, for the way his shoulders draw taut and he pushes himself up over his hands as well as his knees, visibly forcing himself into some semblance of clarity as Murasakibara pushes off the wall and reaches for the front of his shorts.

“Atsushi,” he gasps, his throat gone hoarse from minutes of sustained pleas. He’s rocking forward in time with each of Okamura’s thrusts, his balance unsteady against the slippery floor, but he still trusts his weight to one unsteady hand, reaches out shaking fingers as if to summon Murasakibara closer.

Murasakibara ignores this attempt, at least mostly. He’s working his shorts off his hips by the few inches he needs to free the weight of his cock from the fabric, watching Himuro’s gaze drop shadowed and hot to the motion of his fingers rather than paying attention to the desperation of the other’s outstretched arm. It’s Himuro’s half-open mouth he’s interested in right now, the way his tongue slides out to drag slick against the swell of his lower lip, and when Murasakibara slides forward he idly slaps away Himuro’s grasping fingers before he reaches out to bury his fingers into sweat-heavy hair.

“Open,” he says, coming up on his knees because he can’t actually manage to do this sitting, much though he’d like to. Himuro obeys, instantly, his mouth coming open as wide as he can manage, and Murasakibara braces his fist of the other’s hair to hold his head back and mouth tipped up while he angles his cock in against Himuro’s wet lips. Himuro groans, the sound stretched low and strange against the obstruction at his mouth, and Murasakibara pushes forward to stifle the vibration of sound. Himuro’s tongue is wet, hot and slick as Murasakibara thrusts in, and there are fingers catching and clinging to his loosened shorts but Murasakibara doesn’t bother trying to stop him. It doesn’t matter enough to make the effort, not with Himuro’s lips tightening against him as he pushes himself in deeper. Himuro’s still whining, something garbled and vague, but Murasakibara doesn’t care; he’s past Himuro’s tongue, now, threatening the back of his throat, and then the head of his cock bumps Himuro’s throat and Himuro coughs, involuntary motion tightening his whole mouth.

“Wider,” Murasakibara orders, jerks harder at Himuro’s hair. Himuro’s head goes back farther, he whines something, and Murasakibara slides down his throat, feels the sound in Himuro’s mouth stall into tension working against him. Himuro’s fingers drag against his clothes, Okamura rocks Himuro forward with another thrust, and Murasakbara can see Himuro’s eyes glaze out of focus, his eyelashes fluttering as he shudders under the sensation. Himuro tries to groan, the sound transmuting into motion against Murasakibara’s cock, and there’s another quiver of reaction in him, involuntary motion as he starts to come again. He doesn’t close his mouth, which is what matters most to Murasakibara at the moment; he draws back, gives Himuro a moment to suck in air, and thrusts in again, sliding in until Himuro’s lips are pressing flat against the base of his cock. Okamura is hissing, the sound like resignation; Himuro whines when the other starts to come, the sound enough to offer the details of the action to Murasakibara if he cared to hear them.

He doesn’t. It’s enough that Himuro’s eyes are drifting out-of focus, that the light is catching the sleek of sticky liquid across his back (sweat, mostly, and the smear of come from when Liu pulled out to jerk himself off over instead of inside him). Murasakibara’s hand fits against the back of Himuro’s head, holds him still so he can slide his cock in against the hot friction of Himuro’s mouth while Okamura pants himself through his finish and slides out, his cock still flushed half-hard and sticky.

Murasakibara thinks about staying where he is, fucking down Himuro’s throat rather than bothering with movement. But Himuro’s skin is pale in the light, the angle of his hips sharp like they’re offering handholds, and whatever Murasakibara has let the others do to Himuro the other boy is his, in the end.

So “Stop,” he says, drags Himuro back and off him before the other boy has a chance to react even if he wanted to. Himuro’s eyes are glassy, now, his cheeks flushed red with too-much heat and his shoulders still quaking with aftershocks; he coughs as Murasakibara slides free of his lips, lets his head fall forward in a curtain of dark hair as the other frees his hand from the tangle. “Turn around.”

Himuro does. It takes him a moment -- Murasakibara can see the effort in his shoulders, the shake against his arms and the unsteady wobble of his knees as he moves over the slick floor. But then he’s facing away, his shoulders dipping down to form an angle to catch the light, and Murasakibara can reach out for his thighs instead of his hair, can dig his hand in at Himuro’s hip to brace him while he presses a thumb inside Himuro’s body. He’s sticky here too, wet and hot and stretched wide already, and Murasakibara grimaces, pulls his hand back so he can use two fingers instead.

“You’re a mess, Muro-chin” he observes, drawing Himuro back so he can shove his fingers as deep as he can reach. Himuro wails against the floor, a weird skidding note of involuntary reaction, and Murasakibara curls his fingers as he draws them free to drag as much of the slippery liquid free of the other as he can. There’s a spill of wet as his fingertips pull loose, come trickling against Himuro’s ass and the inside of his thigh, leaving Murasakibara’s fingers sticky enough that he makes a face and wipes his fingers against the inside of Himuro’s knee. When he dips his fingers back inside the motion is still slick but less wet, the friction enough to earn a nod of satisfaction as he withdraws his touch and reaches to brace the base of his cock instead.

“Hold still,” he says, drags hard at Himuro’s hip to pull him backwards. Himuro groans, a shaky note of anticipation in his throat, and Murasakibara fits into him, thrusts forward as he draws Himuro backwards onto his cock. The other is hot around him, slicker and looser than he usually is, but he tenses as Murasakibara pushes into him, his back arching and shoulders flexing like it’s the first cock he’s had inside him all day. Murasakibara lets his bracing hold go, leans forward instead, and when he grabs at Himuro’s hair it’s to pull him up over his hands and knees again, to throw his back into the arch that catches the light into a reflective sheen. Himuro is shuddering again, breathing hard enough Murasakibara can hear the shape of his name on the exhales; he lets Himuro’s hip go, reaches to brace his fingers wide over the dip of Himuro’s spine just above his ass, pushes to tilt the other’s hips down.

“There,” he says, satisfaction uncoiling into his blood from the change in angle. Himuro’s tighter this way, the friction better along Murasakibara’s spine, and he can feel Himuro clench around him with each thrust, now, the angle better for Murasakibara to draw a quake of sensation from him with each slide of his cock. He’s not watching the other boys at all, anymore; they’re not important, now, are only ever a prelude for this, a way to knock Himuro shaking and sticky and pantingly ready for Murasakibara to fuck him.

“Mine,” Murasakibara says, now, twists his fingers in Himuro’s hair so the other groans protest and tips his head back farther to alleviate the pain. “You’re going to have just me inside you, Muro-chin.”

Himuro groans again, hotter this time, the sound slick with anticipation, and Murasakibara lets his hold on his hair go so he can reach around instead. Himuro’s half-hard when he touches him, his cock wet and sticky from his last climax, but Murasakibara tightens his hold anyway, strokes up over him in one smooth motion. Himuro convulses, whines something that sounds a little like protest, but he’s swelling under Murasakibara’s fingers so he does it again, purring satisfaction at the way it makes Himuro clench tight against his cock.

“Atsushi,” Himuro gasps, sounded winded and exhausted and desperate. “Atsushi, I--” Murasakibara drags over him again, Himuro jolts and groans a sharp note of reaction. “ _Ah_. Too much, Atsushi, it’s too much.”

“Again,” Murasakibara says, so low he can feel the word thrumming in his chest. Himuro’s cock is slick under his fingers, the swollen head leaking hot when he touches it. His own breathing is coming faster, his thighs flexing tighter as he leans farther forward and thrusts harder. Himuro is shaking all through his shoulders, now, collapsing forward to pant against the floor and lean hard on his elbows. His hair is sticking to the back of his neck, his breathing going high and aching with each of Murasakibara’s movements; as Murasakibara watches his hands come up, his fingers interlacing against the back of his neck like he’s trying to pin himself to stillness. Murasakibara’s heartbeat speeds in his chest, his legs aching with effort; when he thrusts forward this time he can feel the shock wave of friction up his spine crackling electric into his fingers.

“Muro-chin,” he groans, the fringes of his vision whiting out to sweep the rest of their team out of his sight as well as his attention. “I’m gonna come.”

“Atsushi--” Himuro starts, and that’s all Murasakibara hears before he snaps his hips forward and the cresting wave of heat breaks over him. The surge is enormous, sweeping into his veins and pulsing in waves of sensation that spill hot inside Himuro, and for a moment he stops moving his hand on the other’s length, stops thinking about Himuro at all except for the friction his body provides.

Himuro’s trembling when Murasakibara takes a breath and comes back into himself. He has a hand flat on the floor now, pressing against the surface like he can hold himself steady, and when he says “Atsushi?” there’s a plea on the word, a request he knows better than to put in words.

Murasakibara lets his breath go, feels the race of his heart start to calm itself back into comfortable relaxation. But he doesn’t pull out, stays where he is, and when he twists his hand again he can feel Himuro tense against his softening cock before the other moans brokenly against the floor.

“Again,” he says, and he starts to jerk Himuro off in earnest.

It’s not hard. He knows what Himuro likes, has learned without even making an effort, and Himuro’s already shaking against the floor, his voice shattered by begging and his hands too unsteady to hold onto anything. When he reaches out it’s to grab at one of the benches, his palm pressing against the support underneath it like it will somehow save him, and Murasakibara looks at that, at the white-knuckled grip Himuro is attempting as his hand drags unavoidable sensation over the other’s cock.

Himuro comes all at once, sobbing something incoherent and nearly pained against the floor as his hips buck forward in reflexive search for the friction Murasakibara is already giving him. There’s a spill over Murasakibara’s fingers, just a pulse or two of liquid, but Himuro tightens against him in wave after wave of sensation, each jolt accompanied with a shudder that runs clear from his hips to the hand he still has clinging to the bench. Murasakibara waits until the last has passed, until it’s only his grip at Himuro’s hip holding him upright; then he finally slides free, lets his hold go so Himuro collapses to the floor underneath them.

“We’re done,” Murasakibara announces, looking away from Himuro to consider the rest of the team. Okamura looks faintly frustrated, Liu flushed like he’s maybe ready for another round; Fukui just looks tired, his gaze as blank as if it’s a practice match he’s just watched. Murasakibara waves them off, and when he looks back at Himuro he’s completely dismissed the others from his thoughts. It’s Himuro he’s interested in, anyway, the slip of his hand when he pushes against the other’s spine and the bruises of fingerprints he can start to make out against the other’s hips.

“Come on, Muro-chin,” he says as the locker room door closes behind the others, leans in to tug at Himuro’s shoulder and urge him up to a sitting position. He has to be dragged; even when Murasakibara gets him upright he’s glazed past any coherency, his lips parted on silence and his head tipping against the other’s shoulder as soon as Murasakibara pulls him in. At least it’s easy to get an arm under his sticky knees, to brace against the heavy slump of his back; without any resistance he’s just a weight to be lifted as Murasakibara gets to his feet to move towards the showers.

It’s an effort to get Himuro there, more of an effort to wash his skin and hair clean of the mess the team has made of him. He doesn’t try to stand until they’re done, even then ends up leaning more on Murasakibara’s shoulder than taking his own weight; by the time they’re ready to head home Murasakibara can feel the ache of effort in his arms, the strain of activity taut against the backs of his thighs and in his hips. All he wants now is to go home, to fall exhausted and warm into bed and stay there as long as he can get away with.

But when Himuro stumbles on their way past the front gate, Murasakibara catches his weight without complaint.


End file.
